Now whether through pure accident--in other words, the "sheer cussedness" of Fate--or whether it imagines that its master's last word was a command to itself, the white dog at this juncture gets up, and leaving the protecting shadow of its master begins to slink away over the _veldt_. This and the swaggering insolence of the Kafir is too much for Carhayes. Up goes his piece: there is a flash and a report. The wretched hound sinks in his tracks without even a yelp, and lies feebly kicking his life away, with the blood welling from a great circular wound behind the shoulder. The poor beast has run down his last buck. [Commonly known as Kreli--the paramount chief of all the Xosa tribes.] The train is fired. Like the crouching leopard crawling nearer for a surer spring the great Kafir, with a sudden glide, advances to the horse's head, and makes a quick clutch at the bridle. Had he succeeded in seizing it, a rapidly followed up blow from the deadly kerrie would have stretched the rider senseless, if not dead, upon the _veldt_. But the latter is too quick for him. Jerking back his horse's head and driving in both spurs, he causes the animal to rear and plunge, thus defeating any attempt on the part of his enemies to drag him from the saddle, as well as widening the distance between himself and them. "Stand back, you curs!" he roars, dropping his piece to a level with the chest of the foremost. "The first who moves another step shall be served the same as that brute of a dog!" But the Kafirs only laugh derisively. They are shrewd enough to know that the civil law is still paramount, and imagine he dare not fire on them. A kerrie hurtles through the air with an ugly "whigge." Blind with fury, Carhayes discharges his remaining barrel full at the tall savage, who is still advancing towards him, and whose threatening demeanour and formidable aspect seems to warrant even that extreme step in self-defence. The Kafir falls. Surprised, half cowed by this unlooked for contingency, the others pause irresolute. Before they can recover themselves a warning shout, close at hand, creates a diversion which seems likely to throw a new light on the face of affairs. CHAPTER TWO. "YOU HAVE STRUCK A CHIEF." "_Baleka_ [Run], you dogs!" cried Carhayes, who had taken the opportunity of slipping a couple of fresh cartridges into his gun. "_Baleka_, or I'll shoot the lot of you." He looked as if he meant it, too. The Kafirs, deeming discretion the better part of valour, judged it expedient to temporise. "Don't shoot again, _Baas_! [Master.] You have already killed one man!" they said significantly. "And I'll kill four!" was the infuriated reply. "_Baleka_, do you hear--quick--sharp--at once, or you're dead men!" "Don't do anything so foolish, Tom," said a voice at his side, and a hand was stretched out as though to arrest the aim of the threatening piece. "For God's sake, remember. We are not at war--yet."